The caress of an unheld hand, tracing invisible patterns on skin once known. It lingers, a mist in the night, echoing the warmth of presence now absent.
Remember the grape fields, where the wind sings to the leaves, and the sun paints golden stories upon the earth?
Fingertips dancing on the edge of memory, a phantom brushing against reality's veil. Voices of forgotten touch, etched in whispered winds, drifting, shifting, and yearning.
Echoes of the unseen, painting the air with colors of the intangible...
And so, the phantom limb dances, not in shadow but in the whispered embrace of the wind. What does the wind tell? Listen closely to its secret, murmuring its eternal song.